Reforged Gold
by dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Rumplestiltskin falls through the portal with his son. But now both are adrift in London. Can they survive and prosper? Can Rumplestiltskin become the man he wants to be for his son, or are they both doomed to disappointment once again?
1. Chapter 1: Promises and Plans

**Reforging Gold**

 **Chapter** **One:** **Promises** **and** **Plans**

"Papa! Papa!"

Rumplestiltskin didn't look up as his son burst into the cottage. He wasn't sure why Baelfire was calling for him, but their conversations lately had been strained, and Bae hadn't spoken to him at all since the incident with their former maid. It was best to let his son air his thoughts before making any response.

Baelfire came around to sit in the chair on the other side of his spinning wheel, hands clasping nervously. "Papa...I did it. I found a way to make things be like they were."

Rumplestiltskin felt his body tense. The voice of the Dark One snarled and snickered in the back of his head. He forced himself to keep spinning. It kept his hands busy, kept him from responding in fury to his son.

Baelfire spoke again. "Papa...have you ever heard of the Rhuel Gorm?"

"The Blue Star...the Blue Fairy?" Rumplestiltskin frowned as he turned to face the teen. "Son...fairy magic doesn't mix well with what I am."

"But she can help us!" Bae's eyes were wide and earnest, pleading. "She can send us to a place without magic."

"Without magic?" Rumplestiltskin shoved himself to his feet, moving restlessly.

A place without magic. A place where he'd no longer feel that comforting heat that sparked and tingled beneath his skin. Where he'd no longer feel that bottomless well of energy. He'd go back to feeling cold and tired. Worse… "I'd be weak, powerless."

"Like everyone else. It wouldn't matter."

But it would. Baelfire had never been crippled. Never been alone and shunned. Never been too poor to even have a roof over his head, or food in his belly. He had never been truly weak in his young life. Despite the struggles he had endured at times as Rumplestiltskin the coward's son, he had never known what it was to be a true outcast. He'd never known the grinding pain, exposure and humiliation of being a street urchin. After all, his father might have been a coward, but he was also the best spinner in several regions. Even his poor reputation wasn't enough to obliterate that fact. And Rumplestiltskin had played on that. He'd begged and scraped and abased himself while doing so, but he'd been good enough to ensure that no one could refuse his wares, no matter how they reviled him before and after the transaction.

But he...he'd always been weak. Always alone, until Bae. Always shunned and spit on, until he'd gained the power of the Dark One. To give up his magic, to be the powerless spinner once more...just the thought made his heart pound with fear. Baelfire would never understand those feelings, and Rumplestiltskin didn't know how to explain them.

Baelfire saw his reluctance. The boy rose out of his chair. "Papa, you promised. You made a deal with me." Dark eyes met his, angry and hurt. "Are you going to break your word?"

He never had broken his word yet. He wouldn't start by breaking his word to his son. He'd never thought Baelfire would succeed in his quest to find a way to eliminate his curse, but if the boy truly had...he couldn't break his word to his son, no matter how terrified the prospect of being powerless might make him.

No matter how his curse howled at him.

He turned back to his boy, forcing calm. "No. Of course not."

Baelfire relaxed. "Then we should go. We can go now!" His eyes were shining with excitement.

"Bae. Wait. Wait a moment son." Rumplestiltskin stopped just short of catching his son's arm. Bae hadn't liked his touch after his transformation, and his control was too shaky for him to trust. He settled for holding his hands out in a 'stop' gesture.

Bae's expression fell. "Papa..."

"I'm not breaking my word Bae. But we can't just...just launch ourselves into another world with no thought. What about food? What about money, so we can provide for ourselves Bae? And clothing? I know you want this son, but we need to think it through. A couple hours or a couple days more or less, is it really going to make so much difference?" He gestured.

"You're just stalling." Bae's expression turned mutinous.

"No son. I promise you, I'm not. But if you're right...if this other land has no magic...I won't be able to provide for you Bae. If I cannae use magic to provide for you, then we need to make plans, to bring provisions. It's just like any other journey son. You have to be prepared before you start out. You know that." He put one hand on the back of the chair, gripping it hard to hold onto both his fear and his temper. "Give me two days Bae. Two days to make sure we have adequate gold, food and clothing for us. Then we can go."

Baelfire considered. "You promise? After two days, we'll go? No more delays?"

He managed to force a nod. "Yes Bae. I promise. Two days, to prepare our supplies, and I promise we'll go." His curse was howling. He pushed it to the back of his mind.

"All right." Bae relaxed. Then he smiled. "I'll help you with the packing." He came forward, and for the first time since his transformation, he embraced his father. "You'll see papa. It'll be all right. We'll be together, and everything will be the way it's supposed to be."

Rumplestiltskin managed to raise his hand and pat his son awkwardly on the back. "I believe you son."

Baelfire let him go and darted out of the cabin. Probably to talk to a friend, or perhaps to collect some supplies.

Rumplestiltskin slumped against a chair, his heart hammering. Two days, and then he would follow his son to a land without magic. A land without power.

Deep in his mind, the curse was howling, sneering.

Deep in his mind, the man he had once been was cowering, breathless with terror at the thought of being powerless and weak again.

He put his head in his hands, heart hammering.

He was terrified his son would be disappointed, that his curse wouldn't break and that the disappointment would break their relationship completely. He was equally terrified that Bae's plan would succeed, and leave him weak. He had been ashamed of being a coward and weak, ashamed that he couldn't be a father his son could be proud of.

Bae had already been questioning, thanks to the soldiers, before he'd become the Dark One. What if he lost his power and Bae realized he was as ashamed of the man his father had been as he was terrified of the Dark One his father had become?

 *****RG*****

Rumplestiltskin spent most of the next two days helping Baelfire gather the items they needed. Multiple sets of clothing, mostly the new items he'd procured in deals, or made. Food, in case it was hard to come by. And, most of all, gold. He sent Baelfire to sell some of the things he'd traded for. Other things he sold himself, either in his own guise or in a cloaking spell designed to make him seem a harmless stranger.

He decided not to take his spinning wheel. It was simply too difficult to carry, especially if he assumed he'd have no magic to make the task easier. He did, however, pack his son's art supplies, and some bundles of his finished products, cloth and thread, so he would have examples of his wares to demonstrate in their new land.

Baelfire's approval and constant support was the only thing that kept him moving forward with the plan. He was terrified down to his bones, and the darkness was a constant presence in his mind, growing stronger by the hour, snarling and raging in his head. It took a conscious effort not to snap at Baelfire, not to hurt the boy, and yet, the constant goad to do so was the strongest motivator he had for going through with the plan.

There were many things he would do, many things he could do under the curse's influence but to harm his son wasn't one of them.

Finally, at dusk of the second day, everything was ready. They'd packed their things, chosen clothing to wear, good enough that they wouldn't be immediately recognized as peasants (he hoped). They'd prepared a story to tell, one that would seem plausible, and eliminate any need to mention where they'd really come from. Rumplestiltskin had, with much effort, managed to prepare two spells that would allow them to absorb information from their surroundings, to fit in better. He'd no idea how long they'd work, or even if they would, but he was determined to give them every advantage he could, for Baelfire's sake if nothing else.

Bae didn't like the magic, but he did agree that the spells would be useful, as long as that was the only spell his father performed.

After that, there was nothing left to do, save enjoy a last meal and wait for night to fall. They'd both agreed that going at night was safer. They would simply vanish, no questions asked. Baelfire had already told his few friends that he and his Papa were leaving. Rumplestiltskin suspected the rest of the village would have been celebrating, had they not feared his retribution.

They fixed the last of the food, then settled in to eat. Rumplestiltskin considered eating in silence, but he had to admit, there was something that had been on his mind. He hadn't asked before, but...he'd never known one of the fairy folk to be willing to help a dark magic user before, much less wait for their intended recipients to be ready. "Bae...son...I know I haven't asked...but you do know, fairies don't exactly approve of me. How can you be sure they'll help?"

Baelfire grinned. "It's okay papa. I don't need to call her or anything. She already gave me a way to create the path to the other world." He dug into a pocket of his clothing. "See?" He opened his fist. "It's a magic bean. She told me it had the power to take us anywhere, even a land without magic."

Rumplestiltskin barely heard him. There was an odd roaring in his ears, and the world seemed to tip sideways.

A magic bean. One of those accursed magic beans, like the one he'd used to try and make a fresh start with _his_ father.

He lunged backward away from the table, heart hammering. "Oh Bae...you cannae be serious."

Baelfire's eyes widened. He stood up. "Papa? What is it?"

"You can't trust a magic bean Bae." He was shaking with the effort not to incinerate the bean right there in his son's hand. "Oh Bae...son, you can't be serious."

"It's the only way Papa." Baelfire's eyes hardened with steely determination. "You promised."

"I know son, but...you didn't tell me this was your plan." He gripped the back of his chair with both hands, striving to maintain his fragile control. "A magic bean...son, you have no idea how dangerous those are. You should have told me..."

"It doesn't matter. It's less dangerous than someone using the dagger. And anyway, you promised you'd come with me. You promised you'd do whatever I asked if I found a way to break your curse that didn't involve killing you." Baelfire's gaze was unrelenting. "You said you wouldn't break your word."

"I know Bae. And I don't intend to. But I...oh Bae...you cannae ask me to do this."

"Papa…."

"Bae…I can't do this." He shivered.

"You promised!" Bae's voice rose in an angry shout of denial. The brown eyes were narrowed in anger and hurt. "You promised!"

"Bae, please...I _can't_." He leaned against the table. "I don't...it's not that I want to break my word son...I...what you're asking me...I can't do this." He was shaking, and he tightened his muscles to stop it.

Something of his tone and his desperation penetrated Baelfire's anger. The boy stopped, then calmed, the anger fading to concern. "I don't understand." He came around the table, clasping Rumplestiltskin's arm gingerly. "Is it...is it your curse?"

"That's a part of it." He breathed deep, regaining some of his composure now that Baelfire was talking to him, rather than blindly insisting on his chosen course of action.

"You have to fight it Papa." Baelfire's voice was earnest rather than angry. "I know you can Papa. Just...hold on. After tonight, we'll be okay. You just have to fight it a little longer. I know you can do it." His grip was warm and supportive.

"I...I'll try Bae. But the bean...son, it isn't just my curse. I can't tell you everything, and I beg you not to ask me, but please…try to understand Bae...I…"

"Why won't you explain?" Baelfire's voice was frustrated.

"Because you'd never believe me son. Trust me on that." He heaved out a breath. "Bae, I know you want this, but..." He looked his son in the eyes. "Bae...I don't know what I can do...what you're asking me son..."

Baelfire studied him for a moment. "Papa..." His anger seemed to have vanished into concern and contemplation. After a moment, he straightened. "Papa, do you trust me?"

"Of course I do." Bae was the only person he did trust. The only one he allowed to know the secret of his dagger, his only weakness.

Baelfire stepped away from him, his eyes resolute. "If you can't do this on your own..." He held out his hand. "If you can't do this on your own, papa...will you give me the dagger? Let me help you?"

The curse howled. Rumplestiltskin stiffened. "Son..." A tidal wave of rage rose in him. He forced it back. He kept his voice level as he spoke. "I thought you didn't want to use the dagger Bae."

"Just to help you. I promise. Besides, after we go through the portal, it won't matter."

If it had been anyone other than his son asking him, he'd have killed them on the spot. Killed them and incinerated the corpse. Or strung it up as a graphic warning to those who thought to control the Dark One.

But it was Bae. His son. His precious, precious boy. His child that he'd suffered crippling wounds, constant humiliation, and even a dark curse for.

He breathed deep, fighting back the curse, the snarling voice inside his head that insisted he kill the boy, remove the danger to him. Baelfire remained silent, attuned enough to his moods to sense that he was actively fighting the curse that had slowly consumed him over the past two years.

Finally, he was calm enough to open his eyes, to face his son. "Baelfire..." He hesitated, hands clenching and unclenching, gut twisting, heart pounding. Finally, he found the words he needed. "Promise me son. Promise you won't use the dagger for anything other than...than this? Just for the portal, if I can't do it on my own?"

"Just for the portal, papa. I promise. Just to help you come with me. That's all."

"Even if the Rhuel Gorm is wrong, and my curse doesn't break on the other side?" He needed to know that. He'd never been controlled, but the memories of the previous Dark Ones, emerging in stray thoughts and dreams, told him how bad it could be, even if it were only his son, trying to control him for innocent reasons.

Baelfire's jaw clenched, but after a moment, he nodded. "Even if that happens."

Rumplestiltskin took a deep breath, then another. The thought of giving up his dagger terrified him, possibly even more so than the thought of using the magic bean. Still, he managed to nod in agreement. "All right."

the rest of dinner was a subdued affair. Rumplestiltskin ate stoically, trying not to think about the bean in his son's pocket, or what they were about to do. Instead, he focused on finishing his food, then cleaning their dishes and packing them away. From there, he did one last check to ensure they had all their supplies, especially the multiple small pouches of gold, silver and copper they'd be likely to need. He'd stored them in several places on his and Baelfire's person, and in the packs. Years of being an easy target had taught him more than one trick in that regard. He knew Baelfire regarded him as overly cautious, but his son tolerated it.

One final check over the cabin. Then Baelfire placed the note he'd left, dictating that the remainder of their belongings, and the cabin itself, would belong to the family of his friend Morraine. After that, they shut the door, sealed with a spell to make sure only Morraine and her kin could enter, and walked into the woods.

Fifteen minutes later, the village was out of sight through the trees. Fifteen minutes more saw them deep in the woods, where no one not actively searching for them would ever spot them. Baelfire found a sizable clearing, then stopped and pulled the bean out of his pocket. "Ready papa?"

He wasn't. He would never be ready for this. Nevertheless, he pulled the Kris dagger from his pocket, holding it loosely in his right hand, and managed a short nod.

Baelfire flung the bean to the floor. Instantly, a whirling green vortex formed, drawing at them, pulling them in. Baelfire stepped forward easily, eagerly, but Rumplestiltskin found himself frozen in place.

 _'I can't. Oh gods, I can't...'_

A gentle hand touched his. Rumplestiltskin blinked, and focused on the eyes of his son. Baelfire didn't look angry, just concerned. Then the smaller fingers brushed his own, and the dagger slid out of his grasp.

Rumplestiltskin gasped, feeling suddenly constricted, trapped. He'd never guessed that being controlled, that just having the dagger in someone elses hands, could feel so...wrong. His heart pounded, desperate and clawing, his curse shrieking in the back of his mind. "Bae...Bae..." He couldn't form any words other than his son's name.

Baelfire reached out, took his other hand gently but firmly. "Come on papa. Let's go." His tone was stern, but kind, a boyish imitation of the tone Rumplestiltskin had often used when calling his son to come with him, to or from the market, or on one of his many errands.

That tone was the only thing that kept him from fighting as Baelfire drew him forwards, towards the edge of the portal's gaping emerald vortex. Just getting that close made him feel as if his chest might explode.

"It's okay Papa." How Baelfire could sound so calm, Rumplestiltskin had no idea. But his tone was relaxed, and his hand was warm and reassuring, even with the terror that his possession of the dagger induced. "It's okay. We'll go together, all right?"

Rumplestiltskin managed a short, jerky nod. It was all he could do, really.

"It's all right. Just hold on to me. We'll jump on three." Rumplestiltskin felt the commands take hold, his will now entirely out of his hands. "One...two...three!"

Baelfire leaped forward into the center of the spiral. Caught by the command of the dagger and his son's forward momentum, Rumplestiltskin leaped with him, even as his mind shrieked incoherently in fear.

Together, father and son fell into the portal.

Into another world.

 _ **Author's Note:** Inspired by a friend. Just because. What would happen if Rumple and Bae fell through the portal into London, where Baelfire met the Darlings? So..._

 _Up next: Arrivals, Problems, and friendly people._


	2. Chapter 2: Arrival

**Chapter Two: Arrival**

The journey was just as Rumplestiltskin remembered it. An endless moment of breathless falling, surrounded by light, followed by a plunge into darkness and a jarring landing that jolted every bone in his body.

Then several other things happened at once.

He lost his grip on Baelfire in the landing, hands jolted apart by the crashing stop. They'd landed somewhere dark, green with uneven turf that smelled of grass and dirt, but that was all he knew, all he cared to know as several other sensations slammed into him.

The crushing grip of the dagger's control disappeared, his will once more his own. Just as suddenly, the warm tingle of magic vanished. So did the extra edge of his senses. He felt suddenly blind, deaf, senseless and adrift. And cold. Almost freezing, in spite of the fact that he'd dressed warmly, assuming it would be easier to disrobe for warmer weather than to add clothing for cold.

The voice of the Dark One went silent.

The packs slid from his shoulders, dislodged from the impact.

Then his leg, which had not pained him in two years, not since he'd used the Dark One's magic to block the injury, went out from under him with a pop that spoke of torn tendons or ligaments at the best, new-broken and re-broken bones at the worst. Rumplestiltskin fell to the ground with a howl of pain, hands gripping at his leg. A corner of his mind was mortified, but he'd spent two years without suffering, and sixteen since the night he'd first destroyed the limb, and he'd forgotten just how agonizing the moments immediately following injury were.

He hadn't thought of the spells on his leg failing. Neither he nor Bae had brought a walking staff. They hadn't thought he'd need one.

He lay still, disoriented by pain and the sudden shift in all his senses, when a hand touched his shoulder. "Papa?"

"Bae?" His voice was hoarse, lower than it had been when he was the Dark One. He sounded human again. "Bae? Are you all right son?" he opened his eyes to see his son crouching over him, back-lit by starlight.

"I'm all right. Just a little bruised. But you..." Bae frowned. "Papa, what is it?"

"It's all right. Just...my leg. It..." He stopped, suddenly ashamed.

He was crippled again. And now, in this new land, where he knew nothing, he would have to depend on his son. His young son, who knew no more than he.

"It's injured again, isn't it?" His night vision was coming back somewhat, enough to see the outlines of his son's worried expression. "I'm sorry. I didn't think of that."

"Not your fault son. I didn't either." He lay still, breathing deeply. He'd had plenty of practice, up until his transformation, with breathing through the pain. He knew the injury was bad, worse than his boots could provide support for, but he also knew how to focus beyond the agony.

"Bae, son...get one of the scarves out of my pack. We can use it to bind the ankle until..." He trailed off. He had no idea what the medical practices were in this world. "Until we can tend to it."

Bae darted up. Rumplestiltskin sat up, noting that they'd landed in a wooded area of some kind. At least, there were trees. "And get me a branch to brace it, son. Something straight. I don't want it getting hurt further." Baelfire nodded and darted away.

Something glittering caught his eye. Intrigued, and concerned that one of the money pouches might have broken open, Rumplestiltskin reached out and grabbed it.

It wasn't a coin. Something long, thin and wavy slid into his fingers, and he raised his hand to feel an all too familiar weight in his palm. His heart sank. A snap alerted him to Baelfire's return, and he shoved the object quickly into his jacket.

It was a matter of moments to wrap the leg from ankle to knee in a makeshift brace. Even working in the dark, Rumplestiltskin's hands remembered the movements, movements made habit over fourteen years of experience. Baelfire gathered the packs while he did that, then returned to his father. Regrettably, the boy hadn't found anything to use as a walking stick.

It took a moment of careful work, and then Rumplestiltskin made a tentative effort at levering himself to his feet.

The pain nearly caused him to pass out, and only Baelfire's quick grasp kept him from crumpling to the ground. He let out another cry of pain.

"Oy! What you two doing?" The sharp exclamation made both of them turn, startling them both. Rumplestiltskin tensed, shocked that he hadn't sensed the man's approach. he should have at least seen the light bobbing in the man's hand before now.

The speaker strode out of the darkness, carrying what looked like a lantern, though it was made differently than any Rumplestiltskin had seen before. He was a few inches taller than Rumplestiltskin was, broad shouldered and muscular. He was dressed in dark clothes, with a peculiar hat on his head, the sharp creases and polished boots suggesting that his outfit might be some sort of uniform. It looked similar to one, at least.

Rumplestiltskin fought the urge to cringe. Even two years hadn't obliterated all his old fears of military men. He might have frozen completely, save for the fact that the man appeared to be alone, and on foot.

"Here now. What're you two doing in the Park at this hour of the night?" The question was sharp, but not as venomous as a similar question at home might have been.

Rumplestiltskin breathed deep, and managed to find some small shred of his courage. His mind, still working in the odd, forced focus that he always required to wrap his leg, began to sort through the words. "I'm terribly sorry sir. I...we're a bit lost..."

The man huffed. "Funny accent you have. You foreigners? New to London?"

"I...yes. We just arrived."

London. That was where they were. Whether that was a country or a town, he'd no idea, but at least he had a name. And they were evidently in a 'park'. Whatever that was.

Baelfire chimed in, his young voice sounding both diffident and tired. "Please sir...my papa, he's injured."

"Injured is it?" The man looked them over. He noted the makeshift wrapping on Rumplestiltskin's leg, the packs. "Right then. Give me your names, and explain yourselves."

"I'm...my name is...Rum." He and Bae had discussed not using their full names, just in case.

"Rum like the drink?" The man cocked an eyebrow. "What...your father a sailor?"

"No. But he...he knew them. He was...a bit fond..." It wasn't hard to flush at the mention of his father, especially when he hadn't even told Baelfire about the man.

"Bit fond o' drinkin' eh? Know the type." A brief grin touched the man's face, and for the first time, Rumplestiltskin hped he might have had the luck to have been found by a decent man. "And the lad?"

"My son, Bae." he swallowed. "We...we just arrived. We were trying to find our way, but my leg...I suppose I landed wrong..." He flushed again.

"That you did guv. That you did. But what are you doin here? The path's over there." The man gestured behind him.

Baelfire spoke up. "We...we must have missed it in the dark. And then papa and I fell..." he shifted nervously. "It's my fault. I told papa we should come this way..."

Rumplestiltskin blinked. His son was a far better dissembler than he'd imagined. He himself had learned most of his skills after being cursed.

The man nodded again. "Right. And all the luggage?" He waved at their assorted packs.

"All we have in the world, my boy and me. We came here looking for a fresh start. I intended to find a place to stay, and then look for work in the morning. But...I don't know this place..."

Something in the man's face softened further. "Aye. I hear you guv. You're not the first, not by a long kip. Not with all the troubles in France and all. Say nothin' of the rest of the continent."

France. Continent. Troubles. Rumplestiltskin stored the information in his mind.

"Here lad." The man abruptly passed his lantern to Baelfire. "You take the lantern and the packs if you can manage. I'll take the rest, and your da. Can't leave the park, not with my patrol, but I can see you to the streets and get you a cab to take you somewhere. Park ain't safe at night, not for a wounded man and a young 'un. Wouldn't be doin' my job if I left you boys here."

Baelfire scrambled to gather their packs. The man heaved Rumplestiltskin to his feet and steadied him, then dragged his arm over the broad shoulders. He looped the remaining packs over his free arm, handed one to Rumplestiltskin, then led them forward.

The first step, Rumplestiltskin thought he might pass out. But the stranger steadied him easily. "Easy guv. Easy. Take it slow."

"Thank...thank you..." He breathed. "I..."

"Wounded before? You got the look."

"A long time ago. Before my son was born."

"Ah. Hard luck that. But he's a fine boy. And the missus?"

Rumplestiltskin swallowed hard. "She...she's gone."

"Ah. Bad luck there. Be hard, raisin' a boy alone." A few moments of silence. "What work you lookin' for? Might be I know some folks who could use you. You ain't a street runner, not in those clothes."

"No. I...I'm a...a spinner. A weaver and a...a tailor."

"That right?" There was a tone of genuine surprise in the man's voice, and genuine interest. "A cloth maker? Always heard that's a bit of women's work, that is."

"My father...left me young. With a pair of spinsters. I learned what I could." Short sentences were all he could manage, but it seemed to be enough.

"Ah. That's the way of it, is it? Fair enough guv. Fair enough. A trade to put bread on the table's all you can ask for, I suppose." He paused. "If the cloth you're wearin's an example, you've a bit of skill there."

"It is. I make everything for my son and I." He had, too. Ever since he'd become an adult, he'd always made all the clothes for his family, as well as thread and yarn for others.

"Ah. Good work that. My missus...she'd likely fancy work that good. Even if it's all a bit foreign-like."

He was spared a reply by their emergence into a wide lane, entirely paved with stones. He'd seen the like once or twice while making his deals, particularly with royalty, but Baelfire looked wide-eyed.

Just down the road, under a lantern suspended on a pole ( _an odd contrivance, and how did they keep it lit?_ ), two horses were standing, hitched to an odd conveyance. It looked something like a carriage, a carriage a noble might ride, but it was far more blocky, and far less decorated. There were no pretty paintings of coats of arms on the doors, nor gilding. A man sat in the front, hunched over.

The man holding Rumplestiltskin up shifted enough to get his hand free. "Oy! Cabbie! Here man!"

The man looked up and flicked the reins, and a minute later, the conveyance clattered to a stop in front of them. "What's this then Rob?" His accent was just as thick as the first man's, rough but understandable.

Their rescuer, Rob, grunted as he shifted again. "Found a couple foreigners in the Park. Took a wrong turn in the dusk, or so says the boy. But the older fellow's got a turned ankle. Packin' all they own between 'em, so the story goes."

"Reckon they got lost out of port?" The second man swung out of his seat and moved to open the door, then took the bags and heaved them in.

"Likely they have. But they'll be needin' a place to kip, and this fellow..." Rob helped Rumplestiltskin stagger forward. "He'll be needin a doc, maybe one of them fancy surgeons. Ankle's a mess, it is."

"Right. Know the place to take 'em." The man's breath was heavy with alcohol and something else, something strong, with a hint of smoke. "They got fare?"

Fare. That was money. That, at least, Rumplestiltskin could deal with. He'd been trading all his life, after all, even before he'd become the Dark One. He dug into a pocket. "I...I've money...but I...I don't have..."

"Only got foreign coin then?" There was a hint of mockery in the tone, but he could almost believe it was good natured, and it was certainly well deserved.

"Yes." He found himself flushing, yet again. "But it...I assure you, it's good." He pulled out two coins at random, a gold and a silver. "I'm afraid I don't know your unit of exchange, but...please, for the trouble..."

Both men whistled. The horse snorted, only to be pulled up by the driver. Rob picked up the gold coin. "Well, foreign right enough, but I reckon that's good gold there Jack. Assessor'd know for sure...but that's worth a few shillings or two."

"That's worth a crown or two, or I'm no cab driver." Jack tapped the coin. "That's fare for a week that is, 'less I miss my guess."

"Is it?" Rumplestiltskin straightened, interested in spite of his pain and disorientation. He would need help, especially now. "I could use some assistance. With my leg as it is...I will need to see the...the doctor." He stumbled a little over the word. "And...I need...I need help finding my way around. I...I sold my things to come here, so I've some coin. If you'd be willing to sell me your services...two coins a week, or the equivalent in the coin of this realm, at the end of each week, for as long as I need you?"

Perhaps it was a bit much. But he would need the assistance, lamed as he was. He had more than enough money for it, if the men were right. And after all the years of being poor, and weak, he knew how much those in the lower positions of society appreciated courtesy and kindness. A little coin could buy a fair amount of loyalty with the right man, and he'd long honed his instincts in that regard. Granted, they'd failed him with Zoso, but being the Dark One had sharpened that talent immeasurably.

Jack considered the words. "Tell you what guv. I'll take you and your lad to lodgings, and you give me the coin. I'll have it at an assessor before I start my work in the morn. Coin's good, you'll see me at the door of your place when the clock chimes nine on the hour. Coin's worthless, you'll see me at the end of day, and we'll settle your debt in other means."

"That's...most fair of you. Thank you." Rumplestiltskin bobbed his head in a nod. The pain in his ankle was growing, and he was tired. Beyond tired, really. He was exhausted. The loss of his magic had taken a greater toll on him than he realized, and having his ankle re-broken had done even more.

"Right. In the cab with you then." Jack took his weight from Rob. "Speakin' of, what's your name guv?"

"Rum. My name is Rum."

Jack snorted a laugh. "Father liked the drink? Well, s'pose there's worse. Me, I fancy a nip at the gin bottle, when it's cold." He manhandled Rumplestiltskin up to the side of the carriage. Baelfire had already climbed inside, and the two of them managed to get him in. He jarred his wounded ankle twice, but bit his lip on his howls.

This was a new start. He would not begin it by shaming his son with his cowardice, or his weakness.

Finally, he was settled. Jack grinned. "Right. I'll be in the seat. Knock on the trap if you need summat."

"I...yes. A moment please." Rumplestiltskin leaned against the window in the cab. "Bae...hand me that pack there, son." Bae handed him the pack, and he stuck his head out the window. "I...it was Rob, wasn't it?"

"That it is sir." The first man nodded.

"I...thank you. For your kindness to me and my boy. If it's not...if it's not too inappropriate..." He'd learned as a soldier that some things were. "I'd like to give you this." He held out the silver coin that Jack hadn't taken, and two spools of thread. "Some coin for your trouble, and some thread for your...for your missus." The words felt strange on his tongue, but he repeated them dutifully. He wanted to use the proper terminology, after all. It was one thing to be a foreigner, but too foreign would be a problem.

"Well, I'll not take your coin. Just doin' my job after all, watchin' the Park at night. But the thread...well, if you've some to spare, wouldn't say no to a skein or two. Old gal's been needing some for a spate of workin. Bit of a seamstress she is."

"Here then. One of my good skeins of black. And another of blue." Black, blue, white and gray had been his most common colors. They'd always been the most popular.

He could afford to give away a few skeins, especially in the name of promoting his business.

"Thank'ee kindly guv. I'll be lettin' Jack take you on then. And remember, best stay out of the Park at night." Rob tipped his cap to them.

"I shall. Thank you." Rumplestiltskin returned the gesture. Rob rapped hard on the side of the carriage, then picked up his lantern and backed away. There was a muted click, and what sounded like the low whistle and snap of a whip in the air, and then the carriage lurched forward. Rumplestiltskin leaned against the seat with a sigh.

They had arrived.

 _ **Author's Note:** And so, they have arrived. And had both good luck, and bad._

 _The cadences of speech for the policeman and the cabbie are meant to imitate 1800's cockney, of the type you might hear in old movies, or books (think Mary Poppins or C.S Lewis's 'The Magicians Nephew'). I'm still working on the tone and style however, so bear with me. I promise, not everyone will be using these speech patterns._

 _Next up...lodging, and a few things to consider..._


	3. Chapter 3: Things to Know and Hide

**Chapter Three: Things to Know and Hide**

The ride seemed long, but it most likely wasn't more than a few minutes before the carriage rattled to a stop. Boots thumped, and moments later the door opened. Jack leaned in. "Oy! You two still awake?"

"Yes. We are." Rumplestiltskin managed a nod.

"Good then. We're at the 'otel. This ain't the best, but the folks as run it are good people. Foreigners themselves, so they'll do right by you." Jack offered him a friendly smile. In the carriage light and the twin lanterns of the front door of the narrow building they'd stopped in front of, he was a wiry fellow, with a gap-toothed smile. "Fellow who owns the place gives me work, in the hard times like, so I can vouch for 'im. You and the boy gather your bags, an I'll get the door man." He turned and went up the stairs of the narrow building.

"Papa?" Bae's voice was questioning. Rumplestiltskin felt much the same. He buried his fear, knowing Bae needed him to be strong.

"It's all right son. It's all right." Actually, he had no way of knowing that. Still, it seemed best to go along with it, until they knew more about their situation. And if Jack was duplicitous...well, he knew ways of dealing with that. It would be far harder without magic, crippled, and as a stranger in a new land, but he would manage. He had to.

On the other hand, his childhood, as well as years of being every bully and thief's favorite target, had taught him how to spot virtually any kind of rogue or cruel man. He'd been too desperate to detect Zoso's deceit, but that had only made him all the more wary. Jack seemed rough and uncouth, but he didn't have the manners of a ruffian.

Actually, he had the manners of most carters Rumplestiltskin had known. And many of them had been decent men. Decent enough to give a cripple a ride, in spite of his reputation.

Jack returned before he could sink any deeper into his musings, followed by another fellow. This one proved to be a lad, barely older than Bae, but well built. He greeted them with a smile. " 'Lo sirs. Garrett Turner, at your service. I'm the night porter here. Jack told me you'd been injured?"

"Aye. I...my leg..." The reminder seemed to make his leg throb with renewed vigor. He swallowed back a pained gasp. "I...I can't...I can't walk well...and my son…."

"Never you mind that sir. Lift and carry's what I'm here for. An' if I can't manage, Dickon's by the kitchen door. Won't be no matter for us sir. Just give us your hands and brace yourself; me an' Jack'll do the rest."

Well, he'd done that before. Even when he'd been reviled as the town coward, there had been a few, like Morraine's family, who'd been kind and helped him, especially in those first awful weeks after he'd come home, and after Milah had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him.

He extended his hands, let the two men seize and lift him. He jarred his ankle a bit, but given the height of the carriage his landing was remarkably gentle. Bae clambered out, packs slung over both shoulders in wild disarray. Jack braced the boy as he stumbled, before Rumplestiltskin could even start to react, and grinned. "Easy there lad. You all right?"

"Yes sir." Baelfire straightened himself. "Papa, I've got everything. Are you all right? How's your leg?"

"I'm fine son." Rumplestiltskin managed a weak smile.

"Right then. Let's get you and the young master inside." Garrett settled a shoulder under his, taking his weight on his bad side. "You be comin' in or drivin on, Master Jack?"

"Comin in, just for a short spell."

Garrett nodded and began the slow process of leading them inside. Rumplestiltskin could barely hobble, and Baelfire, for all his bravado, was moving slowly and wearily. It took both Jack and Garrett to get Rumplestiltskin up the short flight of steps to the door, but they made it. Garrett worked the door with an elbow, and they stumbled inside.

"Master Kendrick! Guests for ye!" Garrett's shout startled both of him, enough that Bae jumped, but there was no time for any other reaction as a man emerged from a side door behind a long low desk.

"Enough noise boy. Don't shout to wake the guests, as if I couldn't hear Jack's cab outside." The tone was brisk and stern, like the man himself. "Now then, you said guests?"

"I brought you a pair, father and son. Came in from the continent, got lost in London and wound up in the Park after dark." Jack spoke up. Rumplestiltskin felt a surge of gratitude. He was far too weary to welcome the prospect of giving yet another long explanation, and he didn't quite trust himself to be able to keep the details straight.

Jack kept talking. "Father's hurt an ankle, he'll need a doc. Both'll need lodgin's, food, little of your old lady's home care, I reckon. After all, man's lame and the boy's like to be near asleep on his feet by now. Only carryin' foreign coin, but I've a fare's pay from the da, and I'll know come mornin' whether it's good coin or no."

The other man, Master Kendrick, nodded. "I can spare a room and a meal on credit, just for the night. As long as you'll be by to let me know about that coin in the morning."

"Will. I've never played ye wrong yet, have I, Rod?"

"You haven't. You're a good man, Jack." Kendrick smiled, then nodded to Garrett. "There's a room with two beds on the ground floor, around the corner. Get Dickon to come take the packs from the boy, and get them situated. You sir..." He turned his gaze on Rumplestiltskin. "Do you speak English?"

"I...I do." He spoke the language of the realm, if that's what English was. That was something of a relief. As the Dark One, he'd never worried about understanding anyone.

"That is good." Like Rumplestiltskin, the man had an accent, different from Garrett and Jack and Rob. "That will make things much easier. Do you and your son need anything before you retire? The room already has clean linens, and a basin of water for freshening up. I can have Garrett or Dickon bring you a light repast, or something to drink, to refresh yourselves."

"I...water or whatever is available to drink. My son and I ate, shortly before we got lost." The memory of that final meal at their own hearth made his heart ache. For all the smallness of their cottage, it had been theirs. He'd bought and bartered and built to make that place a home for him and his son.

Master Kendrick studied him a moment, then turned to the young man who'd returned with Garrett. "Dickon, have Sally in the kitchen make up a cup of warm milk for the boy. And half a glass of spirits and a shake of poppy for the father. From the looks of them, they both need a proper sleep more than anything."

Rumplestiltskin blinked. "I..."

The owner shook his head. "I hope you'll forgive me sir. But you and the boy have had a hard road. I can see it in your faces, and you're both worn out. First nights in a new place are always the hardest, and you'll do better for yourself if you take a proper rest. Warm milk will help your boy relax. Spirits for the easing of your spirit and poppy for your leg will do you the same favor. 'Twas exactly what my own benefactor gave me when I came over."

Rumplestiltskin yielded. There was nothing but earnestness in the inn owner's expression and his tone, or in his eyes. For better or worse, he and Bae had apparently landed among decent folk, for once, and it was a blessing he'd not take for granted. He nodded. "Thank you."

Dickon returned. "Sally'll be done in a shake, Master Kendrick."

"Then you and Garrett see these two to their room, then return to your places."

Jack tipped his head to Kendrick. "Looks like you've got everything in hand. Which case, I'll be off. High time the horse was up and I was home."

"That it is. What time in the morning shall I expect you?"

"Told the fellow I'd return nine on the hour, if the coin were good."

"I'll have Mary put something aside for you then."

"Thank'ee kindly. Evenin' to you, Master Rum, an' I'll see you on the morrow."

"Yes." Rumplestiltskin nodded, leaning on Garrett's renewed support as he watched the driver leave. He found himself hoping he'd be able to remain friends with the man. He seemed kind, and cordial enough.

He put the thoughts aside, forced to concentrate on his steps as Garrett half-led, half-carried him down a hall on the right and to a door. The room on the other side was smaller than his cabin had been, but it had two beds. It also had a stand of drawers and a mirror. And a door, leading to a tiny enclosed area with another mirror, a wash-basin, and a privy.

It was practically luxury, given the conditions he'd lived in for most of his life. From the wide-eyed look on Bae's face, his son thought much the same.

Garrett helped Rumplestiltskin to the nearest bed, while Dickon deposited the packs near the stand of drawers. Baelfire flopped on the other bed. Garrett gave him an encouraging smile. "Right then. Sally'll be in with your drinks soon enough. If you're not needin' anything else, me an' Dickon'll leave you to restin'."

"Thank you. I believe we can manage." Rumplestilskin ducked his head in a nod, and the two young men left.

Three minutes later, there was a soft knock. "Sir?" The voice was youthful, and feminine.

Baelfire hopped up and opened the door, to reveal a young woman, perhaps a year or so older than he, holding a tray. "I had a request from Dickon. Warm milk, and a bit of brandy and poppy?"

"Thank you." Baelfire took the tray. The young woman bobbed him a curtsey, then left. Bae brought the tray in, taking the milk for himself. "Here papa."

"Thank you son." Rumplestiltskin took the cup. The scent of the spirits was strong, but not unwelcome. He sipped, feeling the smooth burn. As a spinner, he'd had no exposure to alcohol, beyond the very rare beer at the tavern. As a soldier, he'd only had the rougher spirits. But as the Dark One, he'd had enough exposure to different types of drink to recognize that what he'd been given was, while far from the best, far from the worst brew he'd ever had. In any case, it certainly masked the taste of the poppy.

"How is your leg?" Baelfire's quiet question caught his attention.

"Better. The medicine will help."

Baelfire nodded. "Should we get your boot off? I can help, if you need it."

If he took the boot off, the foot would swell until there was no getting it back on. But the continued restriction wasn't good either. He knew that. "That would be good son. Thank you."

"Of course." Baelfire smiled at him, then helped him swing his legs up. He couldn't help gasping a few times as his son unwound the brace and tugged the boot off, but he managed to keep from screaming. He stifled his cries in the brandy, and by the time the boot was set aside, the poppy was beginning to do it's work.

Fortunately, he'd developed a tolerance for pain medicine, after years of being crippled. Despite the haze, he was still awake enough to see how his son was wavering on his feet. He smiled at the boy. Whatever else was true, he hadn't lost his son, and that was the important thing. "It's all right Bae. You just drink your milk and get some sleep now son. I can manage the rest."

Baelfire frowned. "But...your leg..." He could barely keep his eyes open, but he was still worried. Rumplestiltskin's heart warmed further.

"It's all right. I learned how to manage a long time ago. I'll be fine."

"All right." Baelfire frowned at him a moment longer, then nodded. He drank his milk, blinking a little at the taste, then shed his cloak and shoes. He crawled into the bed, seeming as startled as Rumple was at it's softness and yield. Then his head hit the pillow, and in five minutes, he was fast asleep.

Rumplestiltskin smiled, then turned his attention to disrobing. He habitually slept in his shirt and loose trousers, so it wasn't hard. It was, however, a chance for him to reach into the inner pocket of his coat and remove the object he'd stashed there earlier that evening.

Cold and sharp, his dagger glinted in the light of the lamp on the table between the beds. He'd known what it was the moment he'd picked it up in the woods, in the park, but he'd hoped he'd somehow been wrong. He turned it over.

Dark black lettering scrolled across the blade, spelling out his name. His full name. He ran a finger over it, shivering in reaction. He could still feel the blade.

This land didn't have the abundant magic of his own world, but it was not without power. He doubted he could have the power to throw fireballs or turn men into snails here. Certainly, his curse was much weakened. But the information spell he had cast was still working, gathering new concepts into his head. It would take time, and sleep, to sort them out, but the fact that the spell hadn't completely failed argued for at least a weak presence of magic.

And his curse…

The dagger could not bind him. The loss of constriction he'd felt when they'd arrived proved that. So did the absence of the voices of the Dark Ones, always whispering in the back of his mind, and the burn of his magic. But that didn't mean his curse was broken.

If his curse had been broken, the dagger would have been blank.

He was still the Dark One. For all their effort, it seemed Bae's plan had failed. He might be much curtailed, much more himself here, but that didn't change the fact that he was still cursed.

It did, however, change what he could do about it. He clenched his hand around the dagger, then hid it back in his jacket, determination forming in his mind.

He would be the man Bae wanted. The dagger's influence had weakened enough that he could do it, could be Rumplestiltskin, rather than the Dark One. But perhaps…perhaps, he could use the lingering traces. He'd never known the confidence, the strength, he'd felt with the dagger's power before his curse. But he could use it now.

It would be difficult. He was, now, far more the spinner than the Dark One. And he didn't know if evoking the vestiges of the curse would change him or not. It might do nothing, or it might find a way to make a monster of him, even without the magic to fuel it. But if he could do it, if he could do it right…

If he could do it right, he could be not just the father Baelfire wanted, but the father he deserved. A father to be proud of, rather than a poor, trembling coward.

Determined, Rumplestiltskin put the coat to one side and continued undressing for bed. Once ready, he slid under the sheets, marveling at the skill in their craftsmanship, and drank the rest of the brandy. The lull of the poppy and the relaxation of the alcohol hit him hard, and Rumplestiltskin surrendered to sleep.

 ** _Author's Note:_** _And so...our boys are settled. And it looks like Rumple has a secret...  
_

 _Next up...first day in London. In which they learn a lot._


	4. Chapter 4: The Beginning

**Chapter Four: The Beginning**

Rumplestiltskin woke to sunlight on his face, a low throb in his ankle, and the sound of his son at the door of their room, speaking softly to someone out of sight. He sat up. "Bae?"

"Papa?" Bae turned from the door. "The innkeeper is here."

"Oh." Rumplestiltskin levered himself the rest of the way up, wincing. "Well, let him in son."

Bae stepped back, and Master Kendrick stepped into the room. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning." Rumplestiltskin nodded to the man. He felt foolish and rude, sitting in the bed in his trousers and shirt. Unfortunately, he didn't think he could stand. Just moving caused waves of pain to roll up his leg from his ankle. "I...apologize. I'm afraid I don't know the time..."

"It's just now a quarter past nine. I came to inform you that Jack is out front, waiting on you."

Jack. The driver. He recalled the arrangements they'd made the night before. "I...then, he accepts my coin?"

"He assures me it is good coin." Master Kendrick smiled. "In fact, he was quite pleased this morning."

"Good. Good." That was something. He'd been horribly afraid that his money would be worthless in this new realm, and he'd find himself destitute in spite of all his preparations. "In that case, I should like to prevail upon you for lodgings for a time, if I might." He had to forcibly remind himself that he was no longer the weak and despised spinner, the coward of the Frontlands. Here, he was only Rum, the foreigner who had come to England with his son.

England. Foreigner. The words gave him pause. He rolled them around in his head. They were part of the new vocabulary he had picked up from his spell. England was a country. London was it's capital city, the heart of the realm. Foreigners were people from other countries beyond England.

England was also an island, his mind told him. The Continent was much bigger.

Kendrick was speaking, and he forced himself to pay attention. "You and your boy are welcome to stay as long as you need. You need only inform me of your plans, and my staff and I, as well as Jack, will make necessary arrangements." Kendrick bowed.

"Ah...thank you." He wasn't used to people being so accommodating. Oh they'd bowed and scraped when he was the Dark One, but out of fear. They'd been quick enough to whisper curses on his name when he turned away. True courtesy wasn't something he'd experienced since before Bae had been born.

He forced his thoughts away from that. He needed to concentrate on the here and now.

His ankle was the biggest issue. "I...ah, is there a physician you would recommend? For my ankle?" Physician. Another strange word.

"There are many at the colleges and hospitals. However, if you wish, I will send Jack for a surgeon to come here. There are many talented surgeons who have their own practice."

Fear flickered through him. He had seen surgeons in the army. Butchers who amputated more often than not. "I...I do not..." He clenched his hands on the sheets.

He couldn't live without his leg. Or his foot. For his trade, his legs were vital. He would rather be permanently lame than crippled like that. "I do not wish my foot..."

Kendrick's expression, which had been puzzled at his refusal, cleared. "There will not be an amputation. Your injury does not seem as bad as that. A surgeon to set the bones and test the muscles, then wrap it. Only that."

"Ah. In that case..." He forced himself to relax. Having the ankle set would be quite bad enough, he was certain, but it was better than the alternatives. "I would be most grateful for your suggestion, Master Kendrick."

"I will send Jack for a surgeon at once." The man vanished out the door. He returned a few minutes later. "Jack has gone to fetch a man I know. He does good work, and his fees are reasonable." The innkeeper stepped closer. "I shall have Sarah bring some breakfast for your boy, but I would advise you not to eat. The surgeon's work, it makes men ill."

"Indeed." He was grateful for the warning.

"Perhaps some tea, so your stomach is not empty for the laudanum." The innkeeper nodded. "I shall tell Sarah." He left the room, then returned again. "She will be here soon."

"Thank you. Your care is appreciated, Master Kendrick."

"Roderick, sir." The innkeeper smiled. "You may call me Roderick."

"Roderick then. And you may address me as Rum." Rumplestiltskin sighed. "Though, if I intend to go into business, I should find a name that will not cause my customers to laugh." His real name was even more ludicrous than his current name. He would have to think of an appropriate one.

"That is wise. Roderick is not so bad, but what your parents were thinking..." Roderick shook his head. "Forgive me. I misspeak..."

"No, you do not." Rumple settled back. "In truth, my father thought of little more than his next drink and his next card game. I suspect that I should not have had any sort of education, had it not been for my aunts." The spinners hadn't actually been relations of his, but he had called them his aunts, and it was better than admitting he'd been a charity case, taken only because of his natural talent with the wheel.

A knock on the door interrupted his musings. A moment later a young woman entered. She was dressed in a demure dress with a long apron over it, her dark hair done up neatly under a ruffled white cap. She set the tray she carried on a table near the beds, then curtsied. "Breakfast for the young master and tea, as you requested." Roderick gave her a nod, and she dipped her head respectfully and left.

The mention of 'young master' brought his attention back to Bae. The boy had been sitting quietly on his bed while he and Roderick talked. Now he stood and collected the food for himself, bringing Rumple a cup filled with fragrant amber liquid. Rumple sipped, enjoying the soothing heat and unaccustomed flavor.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Baelfire was more interested in his food than conversation, and Roderick left shortly after it's delivery to attend to other matters. Rumple drank his tea while his mind turned over all the things he needed to do.

He needed a spinning wheel. And wool. And cloth, for his tailoring. The samples he had wouldn't last long. And he needed to make some clothing that was more in the style of what people here wore. It would prove his skill and help him look more respectable.

He needed to find a new name. Something suitable. Distinguished and easier to pronounce than his full name, and more dignified than Rum. Or Rumple.

He needed to learn how to navigate this new world. The spell had given him vocabulary and concepts, but no concrete references. He knew, vaguely, that he needed to go to someone called an assayer, to get his gold appraised and traded for coin of the realm. And something called a 'bank' which would be a place to store his money. A safe place.

He would need to find lodgings, and perhaps a shopfront of his own. Roderick's rooms were nice enough, but he couldn't stay there indefinitely.

He needed to take care of Bae as well. Baelfire was young and resourceful, but he was used to the village he had grown up in. This city was large and full of dangers and temptations that a boy his age would know nothing about. Even with the spell, Bae wasn't prepared for this sort of life.

A knock on the door interrupted his planning. His mouth went dry as the door opened and four men entered. Roderick, Garrett, and Jack he recognized. The fourth man was dressed in austere clothes and carried a large black bag. He was likely the surgeon. Rumple felt his heart start to pound.

"Hoy, Master Gold. Mornin' to ye." Jack tipped his hat in a friendly greeting.

"Good...morning." Rumple nodded back, as best he could when his nerves were singing with fear.

The stranger came straight over to the bed. "Good morning sir. I am Surgeon Cheswick. Mr. Kendrick informs me that you have an injured ankle. Is that correct?"

"Yes. My right." He gestured. "I...I fell."

"Well, let me take a look." The other man moved around the bed and pushed up his trouser leg with brisk efficiency. He prodded the limb, turning and flexing it this way and that as he examined it. He was gentle enough, but Rumple gasped several times, and more than once bit his lip on a howl of pain. "The bone is cracked, and the muscles and ligaments are torn. Tell me sir, have you injured this limb before?"

"Yes. Sixteen years ago. It was...broken badly. And not set." He'd never told Baelfire how that had happened, and hoped he wouldn't be required to now.

"Hmm...it has made the limb weaker, and the poor healing has made the bones crooked. I can set it as it is, and it will heal. But it would be better if I could perform surgery. I can better realign the bones and the muscles. You will have a limp either way, but it might give you less pain in the long run, and you will certainly be at less risk for future breaks."

The idea of surgery terrified him, but the idea of increased mobility and less pain was enticing. It would certainly be beneficial for him, especially with all he needed to do.

He swallowed hard. "And the fee?"

"Not much sir. It depends on the time and the materials, of course, but I would send you a bill when your leg is mended. Master Kendrick informs me that you still need to exchange your coin, but that your money is good." The surgeon studied his leg. "I shouldn't think more than...perhaps a hundred pounds. Perhaps not even that much."

A hundred pounds would cut deeply into his funds. Or maybe not. He had no idea what the exchange rate was between his coin and pounds. But he also had his services to offer, so perhaps it would not be too bad.

"You should let him do it, papa." Bae spoke up. "If it will help."

"I...yes. I suppose I should." He took a deep, steadying breath. "When and where?"

"I can do the surgery here, provided Master Kendrick doesn't mind."

"I do not. A heavy cloth to cover the bed, and it will suffice. I have had such things in my hotel before." Roderick nodded.

"Well and good. I shall need some brandy, and clean cloths, and hot water. And the services of you and Garrett and Jack to hold him." The surgeon shed his coat and began rolling up his sleeves. "And we shall have to remove your trousers, sir, unless you wish me to cut them away."

He was wearing small-clothes. He was grateful for that, now. "No. No sense damaging a good pair of trousers." He levered himself up. "I need to get out of your way, in any case."

Jack helped him move from the bed to the chair, while Garrett and the maid brought in a heavy waxed canvas cloth to cover the bed, followed by a bottle of rum, a basin of hot water, and a pile of linen towels. While they were arranging the bed, Rumple waved Bae over. "Bae...you need to go outside son."

"I won't leave you, papa." The youngster's face was resolute. "I want to help you."

"Bae...I don't know what's going to happen, but it will be...it will be bad. Best if you don't see me like that, my boy." He didn't want Bae to see him like that. He'd managed while Cheswick was examining his ankle, but he knew better than to think he could hold back his screams during the operation. Rum or no, laudanum or no. This was going to hurt.

"I don't care, papa. I'm not leaving." Baelfire shook his head.

Rumple gave in. His heart was heavy, and he knew he would be ashamed later, but he also knew Baelfire was immovable. "All right. But stay out of the way. And if you need to, leave. Please son? Promise me that?"

"All right papa." Baelfire nodded. "Let me help you with your trousers." His son bent. Together they worked the heavy wool trousers off of Rumple's legs. The shirt served to cover his upper body well enough, and fell past his hips. Even so, he blushed when the maid bustled into the room with more cloths, and averted his eyes.

Finally, the makeshift surgeon's bed was ready. Bae moved to stand by the door, while Jack maneuvered him back to the bed. Roderick gave him a cup full of rum, under which was a heavy taste he didn't recognize and suspected was a drug. Not poppy, but something stronger. Perhaps the laudanum Cheswick had spoken of.

On his right, Cheswick laid out a series of small, sharp looking knives and thread, and a wicked looking needle. The surgeon had his sleeves rolled up, a leather apron on, and thin cotton gloves on his hands. Once the instruments were laid out, he and Garrett arranged Rumple's bad ankle on a heavy tray that Sarah had brought in.

Rumple began to feel slightly dazed and relaxed. His muscles loosened in spite of his fear, and everything seemed to grow hazy and far away.

"Reckon he's just about out, Doc." Jack's voice seemed to come from oddly far away.

"Indeed. Well, slip this in his mouth, just in case." That was Cheswick.

Careful, rough hands pried his mouth open, slipped something between his teeth. Smooth leather settled over his tongue. Leather? He wondered why it was in his mouth, but it seemed too much effort to spit it out.

Hands settled on him. On his shoulders, on his left leg and his right thigh. Hands holding him down. He wanted to struggle, suddenly afraid, but his muscles were too loose, and his brain seemed wrapped in cotton. He felt he should know what was going on, but it was hard to remember.

Then a slicing pain roared up from his ankle, like the cut of a blade. It was the cut of a blade, he was sure. They were cutting him. He surged against the hands holding him, trying to pull away, but he was held fast as the sharp pains continued.

What followed was like every fever nightmare he'd ever had during his first recovery. His ankle was a pulsing star of white hot agony, and there were people doing things, cutting and moving his foot, grinding his bones together and it _hurt_. Worse in some ways than breaking it, almost worse than when he'd walked home from the front on his untreated ankle sixteen years ago. He couldn't quite muster enough coherent thought to remember what was going on. He only knew that his ankle was torture, and the hands holding him wouldn't let go, and the hands on his ankle wouldn't stop what they did.

Somewhere in that interval of timeless agony, someone bathed his face with a cool cloth. Voices spoke over him, sometimes rough with concern, sometimes sharp, sometimes soothing. Steady hands clamped his shoulders down, and his wrists when he tried to strike out. It felt like someone might be sitting on his legs, to keep him from jerking away.

He knew he screamed at times during the awful ordeal. Screamed and thrashed and bit down on the leather in his mouth until he nearly bit through it and bit his tongue as well. He writhed, as much as the restraining grips would let him, screaming in muffled shrieks and sobs. His face was soaked with sweat and water from the cool cloths, and possibly with tears of pain. He would have been humiliated, but the agony of his ankle wiped out any thoughts of shame.

Finally, the cutting and moving and grinding stopped. The hands on his ankle began to wrap it in stiff, wet strips, firm but not tight. Rumplestiltskin stilled, panting with the after-effects of the pain. Someone wiped his face again, then tilted his head up and gave him another drink. Pure poppy this time, followed by a cup of cool water.

Rumplestiltskin blinked, fatigue settling over him as the pain began to fade and the poppy take affect. Roderick was bending over him on one side, Jack on the other. As the pain cleared, he remembered what had happened. "Is it..."

"Surgeon Cheswick is done. You are done, and I have given you poppy for the pain. You will sleep soon." Roderick assured him.

"Yes..." He felt the words slurring in his mouth. Then a thought occurred, waking him up somewhat, even with the poppy in his blood. "Bae?"

"I'm here papa." His son appeared behind Jack, face pale and creased with worry.

Rumplestiltskin colored with mortification. His son had likely heard his cries and seen his pain. He wanted to ask, wanted to apologize to his son for shaming him, but the drugs were clouding his thoughts, and he couldn't seem to form the words. "Bae..."

"I'm here." His son took his hand. "You should rest."

He wanted to protest, but the world was already fading. With a sigh, Rumplestiltskin toppled into oblivion.

 ** _Author's Note:_** _Well, a rough beginning for our lads._

 _Next up, Rumple figures out a new name and does some exploration of London..._


	5. Chapter 5: A Day in London

**Chapter Five: A Day in London**

Rumplestiltskin spent the next two days in a haze. He woke sometimes, but his mind was clouded, sluggish. He thought he recognized the effects of pain-killing drugs, but he couldn't focus enough to be sure. All he was sure of was that he couldn't think straight, and that his ankle no longer throbbed with every beat of his heart. It should, he thought, but it didn't and he was grateful for the respite.

He slept most of the time, awakened only to eat soft foods, to drink liquids that were tipped into his mouth, and to make use of a bed pan. The last was humiliating, or would have been if he could think straight, but he had to concede that it was necessary. Sometimes, he half woke to the sensations of someone washing his face, his hands, his throat and chest, but those wakings were brief. He thought he saw Baelfire, and Garrett, sometimes Roderick and Cheswick and even Jack, but he was never aware enough to form words. He wouldn't have known even the passage of time except for the meals he was fed, and the changing light from the window.

Finally, he woke one morning, clear-headed, or mostly so. Morning sunlight was slanting in through the window, and his ankle ached. He shifted his leg, wincing as pain stabbed upward from instep to calf. Still, he thought he'd felt worse in his life.

He inched himself up in the bed, then threw the covers aside with shaking hands.

Someone had bathed him and changed his clothes. He was wearing a clean shirt, a longer one than he was used to. His newly acquired information told him that this was likely a night-robe. His hair was lank and oily, but his face was clean-shaven, so someone had taken a razor to him. Rumplestiltskin took a moment to rub the cloth of the shirt between his fingers. Linen, and fine-woven, soft with age without being over-worn. He took a deep breath, then looked to his ankle.

He'd known from the weight, even as he woke, that it was bound. The manner of the binding though...that was new. Clean linen bandages next to the skin, even softer than the shirt. They wound from just above his toes to mid-calf. Then small, slender slats of wood, presumably being used to brace his ankle, wrapped firmly in place with a heavier fabric. And over all that, leather bound in tight strips, overlapping so that it almost looked like an odd sort of boot.

It was certainly better done than the makeshift splint he'd used after the initial injury. And more comfortable than the twigs and rags he'd used to bind his ankle together while it healed. It was difficult to tell, with his leg bound, but he thought the ankle might even be straighter than it had been before. If that was the case, he'd count the surgeon's cost worth every copper.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. "Yes?"

Roderick entered the room, carrying a tray. The smell of hot, fresh oatmeal and bread wafted from it, making Rumplestiltskin's mouth water.

The hotel owner smiled at him. "You are awake. Good. And you are hungry?"

"Yes. Extremely so." Rumple took the tray and set it across his lap, inhaling the scent of the crusty loaf and the grains, flavored with cinnamon and a bit of milk. "Thank you." He took a bite, then glanced up at his host. "How long have I been...indisposed?"

"This is the third day since Surgeon Cheswick left." Roderick took the chair by his bedside.

Rumple looked around the room, his heart jumping as he realized it was empty. "My son, Bae?"

"He is with Paul and John, my day porters. He wished to be useful. He said he wished to work, to help pay for your lodgings. I was not sure you would want him running errands in London, so I have had him assisting my folk here. He is a hard worker and a clever lad, your son."

"Yes. He is. He always has been." Rumple smiled, though it was a little forced. "What did the surgeon say, about my leg?"

"He has set it, and he believes it will mend well, as well as can be expected, given the previous injury. It is his guess that in two months, the bindings may be removed. You will likely be lamed, somewhat, but you will have your foot, and your ankle, and there is hope you will walk well enough."

"Good. Good." Rumple nodded, feeling something loosen in his chest.

Lamed, but able to walk. That was an improvement from before, when he'd been unable to go anywhere without the aid of his staff.

Roderick gestured to the meal he'd provided. "You should eat. Your stomach's been mostly empty, and you'll need your strength for healing. Bland foods for now, as Surgeon Cheswick said, but if you stomach them well then tomorrow you may have something more hearty."

Rumple nodded and dipped the spoon into the oatmeal. It smelled of oats and a bit of milk and sugar and butter, luxuries he'd often done without in the Enchanted Forest. It tasted wonderful, every bit as good as it smelled.

He savored a few bites, then offered Roderick a nod. "This is delicious. My thanks, and my compliments to the cook."

"I shall convey them." Roderick smiled. Then his expression turned serious. "Surgeon Cheswick has left laudanum and poppy, should you require them for the pain, but has warned me that they can be...it is easy to become dependent on them, as some men are on drink."

"Yes. I am aware." He'd not often had money for it, but he'd heard of injured soldiers who'd succumbed to poppy. "I do not think I shall need them today. Unless perhaps for sleeping." Sleep had always been difficult to come by, with his ankle. More than that, after two years as the Dark One he was out of practice with needing sleep. He'd been an insomniac under his curse, magic constantly renewing his physical energy to the point where sleep had been unnecessary.

Roderick looked relieved. "As you will. Have you plans for today?"

"I had made none. However..." Rumplestiltskin thought quickly, reordering the things he had thought of doing, before surgery had made him lose two days. "I should like, if it is possible, to go out. I need to acquire more local currency, so that I might begin paying my way in proper fashion. And it would be well if I could obtain some more fashionable clothing for myself and my son. And the tools of my trade, as well as employment for myself. My funds will not last forever. And...until I have regained my feet and healed, I should like to know if it would be possible to secure lodging here."

Roderick's smile this time was broader. "Indeed. That is most possible, and I think that we can accommodate your trade as well, should you wish to employ it here. There is a small parlor in back, rarely used, which you might find suitable."

"That would be fine." Ideal actually, since it meant he wouldn't have to leave the building, nor travel far, to work his trade.

Roderick nodded. "I shall send for Jack then. He left message with me to tell you that his services are still secured for you. In the meantime, I shall have one of the maids run you a bath, that you might wash up, and send up some clothes. I have some things that shall fit you, slight as you are."

Rumplestiltskin frowned. "I have my own clothing..."

"You do. But...forgive me for saying, it marks you as a foreigner. And men here...they are not always kind to foreigners." Roderick looked uncomfortable.

"You mean that they might try to cheat me, if they think I know no better, or deal dishonestly with me." He had guessed that before, one reason he wanted new clothing, but he hadn't thought there was any way around it for the time being. "In that case, I appreciate the loan. You may add it to my tab, if you please, as part of a reasonable expense for the laundry."

"As you like." Roderick nodded. He dipped his head toward Rumple's tray. "Finish your breakfast, Master Rum, and I shall see arrangements are made." He rose, turned and bustled out the door before Rumplestiltskin could say another word.

He was half finished with his tea and his oatmeal when a maid came in and began setting up a large basin, with towels and soap and steaming water. He was just scrapping the last of the oatmeal from the bowl with the bread crust when Bae came in. The boy's eyes lit up. "Papa. You're awake!"

Rumple smiled at his son, pleased to see him in apparent good spirits. "I am. Master Kendrick says you have been helping him around the inn." His sharp eyes noted the bundle in the boy's arms, as well as the new shirt and trousers his son was wearing. Slightly too large, likely borrowed from one of the other boys who worked the inn, but they were of decent quality and not too ill-fitting. "You have been doing well?"

"Of course. Garrett and Paul and John have been letting me help. And Cook lets me work in the kitchen sometimes. I even got paid a bit..." Bae loosed one hand from his bundle and dug into a pocket to produce some coins. "A whole half-crown."

"Well done." Rumple nodded to the clothes in his son's arms. "And are those the garments Master Kendrick sent for me?"

"Oh!" Baelfire blushed at his own omission, then nodded. "Yes. I've small-clothes, shirt, trousers, waistcoat, and coat. He said the trousers are a bit loose, and he's some braces, as well as a belt, if you need them, but he didn't think properly tailored ones would fit over your boot." He laid each of the items on the bed. "He also said that I'm to help you, and to remind you that the brace on your ankle isn't to get wet, or it might hurt you. And..." Bae darted to the door, to return a moment later with two curious wooden constructions. "He said these were to help you get around. They're crutches. You set them like this..." Bae perched each one under one of his arms, then lifted one foot off the ground and took a wobbly, swinging step forward. "It's a bit awkward, but he swears they're better than a staff or a cane, for the injury you've got."

They looked precarious. But then again, the staff he'd used before had been none too steady either. "Well, let's see how I manage then." He levered himself to the edge of the bed, biting his cheek to keep from wincing at the feel of his ankle, then held out his hand for the crutches.

The padded slats chafed his underarms, and the balance took some getting used to, but they were better than a staff. Easier to use and easier to balance. He suspected they'd cause his arms discomfort if he used them for long periods of time, but his was not a profession that required much standing.

Bathing was no particular hassle, as he'd gotten used to guarding his ankle during Bae's infancy. Dressing was more difficult, but Bae helped him balance and fasten everything. He left the coat unbuttoned in the end, unable to fasten it and use the crutches properly at the same time, but he thought he was presentable. His shoes had been cleaned some time while he was unconscious, and a comb and a straight-razor completed his grooming. His hair was longer than he'd expected, and Bae showed him how to pull it back in a tail, the way he said he'd seen others in the street wear it. It looked strange to him, but admittedly less wild. He'd never pass for a noble, but he thought he might pass for a well-off businessman.

After he'd finished, they made their way towards the front of the inn, to wait for Jack. As they settled down on a padded bench, Rumple decided it was time to broach some of the other issues of their arrival. "Bae, son, there's some things we need to discuss."

Bae looked at him with curious eyes. "Like what?"

"My name, for one. I know no one back home looked twice at us, but...well, things are different here. I'm thinking we should have a new name for a new start, for both of us. They shouldn't be too different, but..."

"I understand." Bae nodded. "I heard the way Jack and the others talked about yours. We can keep our old names for just between us, right?"

"Of course son. Do you have a name you'd like to use?"

"I heard...one of the men who came to deliver food was..." Bae screwed up his face. "...Irish I think he said. His name was Braden, or Brandon. Roderick suggested Balfor, but...I think I'd like Braden better."

"Braden it is then. And Bae for short shan't be too out of place with that." He was relieved. He suspected it would take time to break himself of the habit of using his son's nickname. "Now, for me...have you heard any likely names?"

"None like yours now, Papa. But...I asked, and Master Kendrick said that Rob was often short for Robert."

"You're thinking of the man in the park, the one who helped us?" A constable, his mind supplied from the new vocabulary the spell provided.

"Yes. It still starts with an R, so it shouldn't be too hard for you. And I'll still call you Papa, so..." Bae shrugged. "I thought it might suit you."

"It does. Robert then. And we'll need a surname, I suppose."

Bae grinned. "That's easy. Jack always calls you Master Gold."

"Robert Gold." Rumple rolled the name around on his tongue. Easy to pronounce, distinct without being difficult or markedly foreign. "Robert and Braden Gold...yes, I think those names will do nicely." He smiled and reached a hand to ruffle his son's hair. "You're a smart lad, son."

Bae flushed and ducked his head, a fond smile lighting up his face. "I learned from you, Papa." There was pride in his eyes, pride the likes of which had been missing since Rumple's transformation. Rumple swallowed the lump in his throat at the realization of how much he'd missed that look.

The moment was broken by the clatter of hooves on stone, and a moment later Jack appeared at the door. "Master Gold. Heard you was up and about today. Master Kendrick says you'll be wanting a ride around London?"

"Indeed." Rumple struggled to his feet. "I...I'm not sure where I need to go, but...I need to go to a bank, perhaps an assayer first, and I need to purchase clothes and materials for my work, and I need to see some more of the city, get my bearings..."

"Not a problem guv." Jack gave him a hand down the stairs of the inn, helping him keep his balance on the crutches. "Not a problem. Master Kendrick already told me what you needed. And I've the papers from the assayer I went to the first day here in me coat." Jack pulled out a sheaf of papers. "You present those at the London City Bank, and they'll treat you proper. If you like, we'll make that our first stop, aye?"

"Yes. That sounds good." Rumple settled himself in the seat facing the driver. Bae clattered up into the seat across from him, and moments later the carriage lurched into motion. It wasn't the smoothest of rides, but he'd had worse, and it was certainly more comfortable than walking would have been. Rumple leaned against the door-frame and unfolded the thick sheet that Jack had handed him.

His gold, if he read the numbers right, was well valued. Pure as it was, the assayer had valued it at 300 pounds per ounce. Which meant he and Bae were very well off indeed. The contents of one purse would see them comfortable for some time. He would have to be careful with how he handled the matter. It wouldn't do to broadcast his wealth any more than he had already. He folded the papers and tucked them into his waistcoat, just as Jack pulled to a stop.

The building Jack had pulled up to was a moderately sized edifice of stone. The front was plain, a carved edifice supported by stone pillars, but around the entrance were carvings of mythic looking figures in heroic poses. Rumple's skill was not stone-craft, but he knew enough to know that the carvings around the door of the bank would have taken long months and earned the stonemasons a fair bit of coin, more even than most commissions in his own land would have garnered.

Jack let them out and gave Rumple a hand down, bowing courteously. "I'll be waiting here, or near-abouts, when you're done sir." Rumple took his cues from the cabbie's behavior and offered a nod, rather than a more informal response. He had a feeling that the type of man he wanted to establish himself as wouldn't have been overly familiar with a hansom (another new term his spell had given him) driver. Nor did Jack seem to expect it.

The stairs into the London Bank were broad and not overly difficult, though they were smooth and Rumple suspected they'd be nigh impossible to navigate in the rain. The doors looked heavy and imposing, but Bae went ahead of him and pulled one open, sparing him the possibility of fumbling them. The boy looked nervous suddenly, sensing the imposing, regal air of the establishment. Rumple offered him a small smile. "Thank you son." Bae's shoulders eased, though he still looked wide-eyed and solemn.

They passed through the heavy doors (oak, by the look of it) and into a large, open room. Ornate doors lined the walls, and at the far end stood a long low counter, watched over by men in somber dark suits. Rumple paused, feeling somewhat shabby and wishing for his leathers, then straightened his shoulders and forced himself to make his way forward.

It wasn't long before one of the windows was open, and Rumple maneuvered toward it. The man at the counter was tall and slender, with the pale complexion, neatly barbered hair and soft skin that would have signified nobility back in the Enchanted Forest Realm. He looked at Rumple with no particular interest, sizing him up and down before he spoke. "Name and business?"

"Robert Gold." Rumple summoned his courage, thin as it was, pulling on all his experience in haggling as a spinner, and deal-making as the Dark One. "I wish to make a conversion of foreign coin to coin of the realm, and to open an account." He pulled free the sheaf of papers Jack had given him. "These are the papers from my assayer, regarding the estimated value of exchange for what I currently carry." He handed them over. "I shall require these returned to me once you've verified them."

The man flicked them open and read through them, one slim eyebrow rising. "Indeed. And may I see a sample of this coin, Mister Gold?"

Rumple reached into his pouch, carefully concealed at his belt, and pulled forth a single coin, which he slid across the counter.

The man picked it up and studied it. "The papers seem legitimate, but this does not resemble any coin with which I am familiar."

Rumple scrambled for an explanation. "My son and I are from a distant country. The coin was stamped with the marks of a local lord, and I did not exchange it on the way. I thought to prevent it's theft by making it appear worth less than it's true value."

The man looked skeptical, but nodded. Then he pulled out a small set of scales and set the coin on one side, measuring the weight. "How much did you wish to change today, sir?"

Rumple pulled the remaining 9 coins he'd brought out of his pouch. He had some silver that he'd brought in case it was needed but he'd wait for that. The gold would be enough. He slid the coins across the counter. "I'll have this exchanged. Though I'd not be adverse to having the majority of it put in an account."

The man's eyes widened. Then he recovered himself and scooped the coins up, before flipping the counter aside. "Please come with me, Mister Gold."

Rumple and Bae followed the man across to a door, bearing a plate that said 'The Honorable Evan Martin'. The man knocked and after hearing a muffled acknowledgment, stepped inside, gesturing for Rumple and Bae to follow him. "Mr. Martin, this gentleman has come to do business with the bank."

Evan Martin proved to be a portly man with thick grey hair, a heavy mustache, and sharp eyes. He was seated behind a heavy wood desk, covered in neat stacks of documents. He glanced over Rumple, ignored Bae, and gestured for his man to go on.

The teller laid out the terms Rumple had iterated, presenting the coins and the assayer's papers to Martin at the appropriate times. Martin's eyes widened as he looked over the documents. Rumple forced himself not to fidget or look worried. Or overly anxious. He tried to imagine how he'd have handled it as the Dark One. He couldn't manage the manic glee, but he did manage calm indifference.

Halfway through. Martin gestured him to a chair. He took heart from the show of courtesy, gesturing Bae to take the other chair as he lowered himself into the well-padded monstrosity. His descent wasn't as smooth as he would have liked, with the crutches, but he managed well enough.

Martin let his teller finish his report, before gesturing the man out the door. Once the heavy oak had closed behind the man, Martin folded his hands in front of him and fixed the full of his attention on Rumple. "Master…Gold, was it?"

"Yes." Rumple nodded.

"You understand what you've handed me?"

"Gold in rough equivalent to..." Rumple did the quick calculations. He'd seen the clerk measure the coin at roughly 4 ounces. 4 times 300 times 10. "...12,000 pounds, with the appropriate documentation."

"Yes. Quite. You will pardon me, but I should like to know how you came by such a...large amount."

"In my home country, I was well off." Not a lie. "I was a talented tradesman, with a modest fortune. War threatened my land. My injury..." He gestured to his bound ankle. "...is not entirely a new occurrence. The local overlord threatened to take my son. He is my only son, my heir, and he was only fourteen when they threatened to take him. Not old enough in my mind to be put on the field, certainly not as a common infantry-man or weapons fodder. So I traded all my estate and my lands into currency, packed what essentials I could not sell, and traveled across the continent and from thence to England. I had heard there were...opportunities here. I was re-injured shortly after our arrival. However, the surgeon who tended my wound, and the man who housed me both recommended this bank as a place of business." He gestured to his wardrobe. "I am aware my attire does not entirely reflect my represented monetary assets, however...I did not wish to do business appearing as a foreigner. Besides, a man who does not look rich will be less likely to be targeted by thieves, and until I am well established, I would prefer to be cautious."

His throat was aching by the end of his recitation, but Martin looked at least somewhat reassured. Rumple wet his lips, then decided to sweeten the deal. "Understand, Mr. Martin...what I have provided is not the entirety of the monetary resources I possess. Merely a token to see to my needs of today, and establish some...appropriate channels of communication. Should you be willing to enter into business with me, and my dealings prove...beneficial, then I should not be adverse to investing the rest of my finances with your establishment."

"What manner of sum are we discussing, if I might be so bold?" Martin's eyes gleamed with avarice and interest, and Rumple felt something inside him loosen. It seemed his gold would talk in this land.

He did some quick counting in his head, setting aside some of his coin for emergencies or favors. Then he gestured to the desk. "May I?" He indicated the neat stacks of blank paper and the strange looking pen.

Martin slid pen and paper to his side of the desk, and Rumple wrote out the numbers of gold, silver and copper he thought appropriate. He slid the paper back. "All of that, in a purity consistent with the original assayers assessment. I should like to exchange one coin into currency for today, with the rest in an account for myself and my son Braden. This account will be managed on a trial basis for a period of six months, during which I hope to establish myself in or near London. At the end of that time, should I find my affairs have been managed adequately, I shall consider depositing the rest of my assets in trust with the London Bank."

Martin's eyes had widened at the numbers Rumple had provided him. When he looked up, it was with a warm smile. Rumple knew even before the man offered his hand what the answer would be. "Welcome to London Bank, Mister Gold. One moment, and we can begin filling out the proper papers for your account."

Two hours later, Rumple left. He had a new account, under the name of Robert Gold, a secondary trust account under the name of Braden Gold for Bae, a pouch full of pounds, shillings and pence, and an odd, thin book with thick ornate sheets that Martin had called a cheque book. The concept, as it had been explained to him, was that instead of carrying his material wealth with him, he could write 'cheques', essentially notes authorizing the use of his account. He also had, at his own insistence, a ledger for himself and for Bae, so he could keep track of his finances.

Jack was waiting for them when they emerged. The cabbie hopped smartly down at their approach. "Everything all squared away sir?"

"Quite." Rumple swung himself up. It was easier with practice, though it still felt awkward. "A tailor next."

"Gentleman's tailor, I expect?"

"Somewhere that can provide clothing in quality both in keeping with a money-changer's attire and Master Kendrick's, I should think." Money-changer, he'd learned, was what the men who worked at the bank were called. He'd also learned, quite accidentally, that the London Bank was a new thing, a group of money-lenders and such who'd formed a partnership to try an idea one of them had brought back from the continent. "Also, given I may need to ply my trade as a tailor and a spinner..."

"I know just the place sir." Jack clicked his tongue, and the carriage lurched into motion.

This time, Rumple allowed himself to look out the window as the carriage wound it's way over the cobbled streets. Narrow streets, he noted, except in the wide courts. People stepped out of the way as carriages rolled by, sometimes cursing as the more careless drivers splashed them with mud and dust.

As they rode, he noted several distinct classes of clothing. Here and there were the men in the distinctive uniforms of constables, but beyond that, he was conscious of at least three different social groups moving among the city streets.

In the wide courts and parks were men with crisp white shirts, shined shoes, and suits in rich looking fabrics and bright colors. These men wore tall hats, gloves and frothy cravats, and drove small, sleek looking carriages or rode healthy, large horses. Some of them were accompanied by young women in fancy multi-layered dresses, with gloves and parasols (he thought that was the term) to keep their hands clean and their complexions pale.

Those would be the nobles, the gentry. If fortune favored him, he might become a business associate of these men, though he knew he lacked the manners and the complexion to count himself among them.

The second group wore smaller hats, and suits that were often fine linen and cotton, cut to a slightly more practical style than the nobles' long tails and wide lapels. Their cravats were smaller and neater, their shoes showing signs of regular wear. Many of them wore gloves still, but they had slightly tanned faces, and the look of men used to work. Several of them walked, often with canes that he suspected served as defense and status symbol rather than walking aide.

These would be the tradesmen, the wealthy businessmen. This was the group he would establish himself as a part of, the group where he would find his connections and influence, if it was there to be had.

The third group consisted of men like Jack, in heavy wool or rough homespun shirts and rough trousers. Heavy leather boots and worn caps numbered among them, and often thick, lumpy scarves, likely made by beginning seamstresses or wives and daughters, if he was any judge. Hard, callused hands and fingerless gloves, or no gloves at all, and sunbrowned or burned faces. Hair that was awkwardly barbered and often somewhat messy, or chopped so short it was barely more than stubble. Many of these men possessed unkempt, tangled beards, or stubbled chins. The women to match them wore faded, simple dresses, often with aprons over them, and simple caps to keep their hair pinned back. Their hands were also rough with signs of a life of work.

The working class, the laborers. He knew better than to scorn them, though he suspected many of the tradesmen and nobles did. He knew well what kind of business could be gained from serving the working class as well as the wealthy, and what the poorer denizens of the city could not pay in coin, they might in services. Managed properly, he might find allies and friends among these people, eyes and ears in the city and help to manage those problems that he no longer had magic to mend.

Besides, free from the Dark One's Curse, he could remember all too clearly what it was like to be counted among those folk, and he wasn't about to sneer at them. Not with the memories of the guards kicking him into the dirt while he begged in his mind, or with Bae watching him. Bae would never forgive him if he dealt with the working class unkindly.

He was shaken from his thoughts by Jack pulling up. He glanced out the window to see a modestly sized shop, faded lettering announcing it as 'Master Sheldon's Clothes for All Occasions'.

He clambered down, let Bae open the door for him, and hobbled inside.

The smell that hit his nose was familiar and welcome. Cloth. The measuring tables and shears were finer quality than he'd ever been able to afford, but easily recognizable. Cloth was stacked in neat bolts and rows, linen at the front and higher quality material at the back. A simple stool stood discretely to one side, and a dressmaker's form, such as he'd seen once or twice on trips to the city (he'd never even dared dream of owning one) stood on the opposite wall.

He breathed in, taking in the layout with a practiced eye. Yes, this was the workshop of a true craftsman, or he was no judge.

A man came out from a curtain in the back. He was slender, not much taller than Rumple himself, with well tailored but modest clothes. He wore a heavy leather apron with the tools of his trade tucked neatly into the pockets about his waist. His hair was a dark brown, his eyes a lighter hue, sharp and shrewd. He bowed politely, though not overly so. "Greetings sir! How may I assist you?"

"A wardrobe for myself and my son. We've recently come to London from the continent, and wish to dress in keeping with the people of the city. I am a tradesman. I'll be wanting garments for every sort of occasion, at least three of each."

The tailor's eyes gleamed in interest. "As you wish, Mister…?"

"Gold. Robert Gold."

"As you wish Mister Gold. Will you be wanting to do yourself or your son first?"

"Myself." He'd not trust Bae to the man's hands until he knew if he was as skilled as his shop indicated. However, to avoid offense, he gestured with one crutch. "And I'll need a seat after, if you have one to offer."

"I do sir, I do, if you're willing to take a stool. I've several. But for now..." The man turned and pulled out the low platform stool. "If you can step up here..."

It wasn't easy, but he managed. The man whipped a thin, marked piece of cloth from one pocket and began measuring him, stopping every now and then to make notes on a scrap of parchment he'd rescued from one table. "All right then…well, you're not too tall, and you're fair slender...good structure in your shape. Excellent muscle tone for your physique...not too bulky, not too skinny. You're no Palace guard, but you're no stripling either. I can work with that." He measured height, shoulders, arm length, leg length, waist, hip and chest. "Boot's a bit of a problem, but I can adjust the measure, perhaps a pair of flared leg...bit outdated, but at least you won't look a complete fool while your leg mends, and then tailored trousers for after you get out of that contraption. Jackets...I assume you'll want jackets? Well, it'll be hard to get a proper fit with those sticks in the way, but I'll do my best. Might be a touch loose, but nothing that can't be adjusted as needed. Do it all the time, though not usually for this. What happened?"

Rumple blinked at the sudden change in topic. "I fell. My ankle has been weak since a badly healed accident years ago, and it re-broke. I had a surgeon set it this time."

"Ah. Do you know if you'll have a bit of a limp or shortening of the limb? I only ask because I'll need to make adjustments."

"The surgeon did not mention a shortening of the limb, but he said I am likely to be lamed somewhat. And with my previous injury, the ankle was somewhat..."

"Say no more, say no more sir. I've an idea. I've a cousin who took a bad tumble when we were boys. But most of that's for a boot-maker to be concerned with. Won't interfere too much with what I've to do for you." He flipped the measure back into a neat roll with a few practiced twists of his hands. "Now then...you said tradesman, so that would be linens and cottons I'm thinking. You'll want summer-weight for now I should think, but I can do winter-weight as well, with the turn of the seasons coming on. If you'd rather not have to make more than one trip."

"Please. I would rather limit my travel until I am healed, and the surgeon said it may be some time."

"All right then. Now...you said you'll want some working garments, and some house clothes, casual day wear, formal day wear, casual evening and formal evening, I think?"

"Yes. And night-robes and undergarments if you can."

"That I can, sir, that I can. Not a problem. Might I ask what trade you're in sir? Give me an idea of what you'll be needing?"

"I was a deal-maker, a trader, before I chose to leave my home. However, before that...I established myself originally as a spinner and weaver."

"Did you?" The tailor looked up. "If you're looking to work...I would be interested in seeing a sample of your wares sir, if you happen to have any with you today."

"I have." Rumple looked to Bae, but the boy was already pulling free the small pack he had brought, removing skeins of thread for inspection.

The tailor took them, inspecting them with all the intensity and dedication of a master craftsman. "Good tension. Plain colors, but sometimes dyes can be difficult to come by. Smooth, tight twist. This is fine thread. What did you spin it of?"

"Sheep's wool."

The tailor's eyes widened. "Sheep's wool? Not the lamb, but the adult sheep, and like this? Is this an example of your normal work?"

"A fair representation of it, yes. I have...it was only a little, before I was encouraged to seek alternative methods of support, but I have worked some with raw silk and cotton and the finer types of wool."

"Marvelous. And do you weave as tight as you spin?"

"I would not now, being out of practice, but with some time to regain my old skills...there is some chance that it would be of similar quality."

"Excellent. And how much would you say you can produce, given a day, or a week?"

"I would have to see. I am hampered by my injury at the moment, and I sold my wheel as being too cumbersome to bring with me when I left my homeland, so I would have to replace it, and a loom if you wished weaving. But I was accounted both skilled and quick among my countrymen." Good enough that he'd managed to feed and clothe his family with some to spare, in spite of his reputation. "Even when I became a trader...I had not time to keep up with my weaving, but I continued my spinning, and I've not lost my touch in that regard."

"Well enough. As it happens, I've been looking for a likely spinner. Some of my finer clothes need better thread than my current fellow provides, and my business is good enough that I'm outstripping his supply. Can you sew?"

"I can sew clothing, yes. Patterns...it would depend on the complexity. I was rarely asked to do such work."

"Never mind that. What I mean is..." the tailor gestured around his shop. "I've said my business is improving. I had been in mind to take a partner, but there are few interested candidates, and none I've felt equal to the task. If you can sew and weave anything near as well as you spin, and if you're looking for an opportunity and don't mind returning to the trade...I think perhaps I should be interested in pursuing a partnership, if you are amenable."

Rumple blinked, tentative hope swelling in his chest. To have an offer of partnership in a business such as this...he'd hardly hoped…He swallowed hard, forcing back the tears that wanted to break free. "I would not be...adverse to such a thing." He swallowed again. "Perhaps a bargain might be struck, Master Sheldon? I shall give you my order and my business today. When it is completed, send round to Master Kendrick's Hotel for me. When I come, I shall bring payment, and a sample of my own skills. If our mutual talents prove acceptable to each other, then perhaps further discussion of a partnership might be made."

"Marvelous suggestion. You are a good businessman, I can see. Well then...proper fabrics..." Sheldon whirled around the shelves, pulling down various bolts. "You'll want white or cream for the underclothes and the shirts, and cravat cloths too I'm guessing. At least some of them. Certainly your formal should be white, unless you want to come off as a peacock. But beyond that...have you preferences?"

"I have done browns and blacks by main preference."

Sheldon glanced over him. "They'll suit your coloring, but browns are servant's clothes. Blacks are more the thing, I should say. With that gray in your hair, A dark shade of that color might suit...have you considered greens?"

"I have. And I found that deep crimson was a decent color, I think."

"The right shade would do you well. But crimson is expensive. Might do that for your formal waistcoat, something in the subtle brocades...I'll have to see what I have. Deep blues. Bit expensive, but not unheard of...pale yellows...not too pale or they'll wash you right out, closer to a gold might suit..." Sheldon cracked a sudden smile. "Gold for gold...that's not bad, perhaps, if we go into business together we can make it a bit of a trademark of yours…but for now...gold colored linen over a deep gray or a black shirt...oh, that would look excellent on you. Or a deep green...yes...you do favor the deeper, darker colors."

The next hour passed in a flurry of fabrics. Fabrics draped next to his skin, measured against his frame, held next to his eyes. Textures were passed through his fingers for him to evaluate. He paid close attention, sensing this was a test of his own craftsmanship as much as Sheldon's. Some of the fabrics he suspected were deliberately ill-suited, either in the roughness of the weave or in the color, and some not quite of the quality suited for him. There was one heavy velvet he rejected as 'too rich' and one linen that he judged 'too coarse for the image he wished to present'.

By the time he was done, he was exhausted and his arms were aching from leaning on the crutches. But he was well satisfied with his choices, as was Sheldon by the look in his eyes.

Bae had long since grown bored and wandered off to gaze out the window. Rumplestiltskin hopped carefully down from the stool. He almost called his son by his nickname, or his original name, but caught himself just in time. "Braden, lad...it's your turn."

Bae approached the stool with apprehension in his eyes, but he climbed up willingly enough. Sheldon whipped out his measuring tape and began to check the boy over. "Well, you're a fine built lad. Slender as your father, but you've some height, and I'll wager you fill out broader when you get your growth. How old are you?"

"Sixteen." Bae tilted his chin up.

"Nearly a man then. You've some more growing to do, I'll be bound, but you're too old for short-trousers by a fair margin, so it'll be a wardrobe like your father's, but more of the casual and less of the formal wear, I think. Boys, even boys who are young men, are rougher on their clothes. Have you a trade yet, young Braden?"

"No sir. I was...I was too young when we left home. I've helped my father with the wool and the sheep, but..."

"I fear that it was not my son's calling. He has some talent in art, I think, but it will be up to him whether or not he pursues it. Now that we're looking to settle, it is something he and I will discuss."

"Fair enough. I'll add some smocks and such that can withstand different types of work and clean up easily. Heavy linen, perhaps some water-proofing?"

Waterproofing. He'd always done his own, but he doubted Kendrick would appreciate the process. It smelled. "If you've water-proofing, I would like to add a cloak or coat, whichever is the more acceptable style at the moment, in waterproofed or heavy fabric. We have little enough to protect us from the rain that another garment would not go amiss."

"I've got just the thing. And a good pattern for you, fit you well, sir." Sheldon broke off to jot down another notation. "Now then, fabrics for the lad..." He whirled off into the shelves.

In the end, Bae was considerably easier. His clothes were primarily browns and blacks, with cream shirts. Only the formal garb was colored, a nice green that suited the boy's chestnut hair. The linen smocks were a deep cream color that Sheldon assured him would wear well and wash well.

Finally, they were done. A quick consultation with Jack provided the address of Kendrick's hotel, which Rumple filed away future reference. He gave the location to Sheldon and departed, leaving the tailor already hard at work.

By then, it was past noon, and both he and Bae were hungry. At his request, Jack returned them to the hotel, where one of the serving maids provided a nourishing stew for Rumple and bread and mutton for Bae, with tea for both.

Afterward, tired and sore, Rumple elected to postpone the rest of his shopping. He knew from prior experience that finding a good wheel would be an arduous task, and he was far from willing to settle for a poor one. Instead, he and Bae returned to the carriage and had Jack show them the city.

It was a huge city, by any standards Rumple knew. Jack showed them the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace (which many kings Rumple knew would have died with envy over), and Big Bend, the huge tower clock that left them both gaping. He showed them the markets, both the higher end ones and the 'Cheapside' market, the Theater, which both of them admired. He showed them the Westminster Cathedral, again palatial, and the smaller churches. He also showed them establishments for food, and public drinking houses, and took them for a longer drive around the Park, so they could see what it looked like in proper daylight, and where the paths were. He drove them along the Thames, and to the London Docks.

Finally, as dusk was falling, Rumple directed him back to the inn. He and Bae were both near overwhelmed by the size, diversity and scope of the city. Even as the Dark One, he'd never encountered such a place. Both of them were also sore from a day of rough roads and, as expected, the crutches had chafed at Rumple's arms.

Still, as they devoured another meal of stew, this time with brandy for him and milk for Bae, Rumplestiltskin decided the day had been well spent.

They'd made the first steps in establishing their new identities in this new land. With luck, he'd soon have a business and a partnership with which to augment his funds and begin building his reputation anew. A reputation free of the taint of 'coward' or 'Dark One'.

He'd found some potential allies as well. Associates. Sheldon, he thought, might even become accounted a partner and a friend.

Best of all, he'd seen pride in Bae's eyes. In fact, his son was still smiling as they changed into night clothes and prepared for bed. He didn't even make a face when Rumple rang for something to put a small dose of poppy in before he retired.

As he drifted away into drug-aided slumber, pleasantly pain-free and hazy, Rumplestiltskin felt something warm and unfamiliar welling up inside him. In the last instant before consciousness faded, he recognized the feeling, and it sent him to sleep wrapped in warmth.

For the first time since he'd shattered his ankle 16 years prior, Rumplestiltskin felt hope.

 _ **Author's Note:** Father-son outing! Rumple's getting things started, and he's got a new name. I went with kind of a popular/cannon choice, but I think it suits him. _

_So now things are going, and in the next chapter, he'll start with business and getting his name spread around. Possibly more business with Sheldon. Don't ask me where Sheldon came from. I wasn't planning on his appearance, but he blind-sided me. And I think Rumple needs a more outgoing partner. Someone who can give him an example of the person he's learning to be._

 _I've tried to keep this story modeled after Dickens-era type stuff. According to the research I did, the numbers I gave are a decent ball-park for what Rumple's gold would be worth. So he's really kind of rich here. I've tried to keep terminology and everything accurate, but writing for Victorian time period is kind of a new experience for me, so please bear with any mistakes I make. Thanks._


End file.
